XXXVII.

Awake, ye Sons of Spain! awake! advance! Lo! Chivalry, your ancient Goddess, cries, But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies: Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar: In every peal she calls--"Awake! arise!" Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore?